alone together
by hooksandheroics
Summary: Tumblr drabbles and prompts master post. Ratings will be on the notes before the chapter, don't worry. Feel free to shoot me a prompt in my inbox or the reviews.
1. tidal wave

**AN:** I'm starting a drabble masterpost, so stay tuned. :)

**Rating:** S for smut and H for hormones.

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**tidal wave.**

No one's told her it's going to be like this—heated, needy, _wanton_. No one has ever told her of the consequence (well not really a consequence, more like an incentive considering she's _very much _enjoying the feel of his tongue on her clit, the quick nips of his teeth against the sensitive bundle of nerves, the way his fingers dig into her hipbone, the sounds he makes, _God_). But the moment she walked into the door of the apartment after a long day of work at the station, she found herself being pressed into it by a decidedly very hard body, hard in more ways than one. Her lips were being assaulted, a hand inching up until it's under her top, warm palm against the suddenly heating skin of her stomach—_Jesus_—

He pulled back rather abruptly, right when she just registered what was happening, and gave her a _devastatingly_ dashing smile. "I've missed you, love," he rasped against her mouth, all sin and hunger in his eyes, while she, in all her Savior glory, panted and clutched at the hair on his nape.

"Yeah?" she asked breathlessly, pushing her body fully against him, and she really should have known better. "It doesn't feel like it—

And then he's attacking her again, and really, she shouldn't have done that. Or rather, she should have done that a long time ago, because now, she's on her back, on their bed, gasping as he plunges two fingers inside her without so much as a warning. "Killian!" she exclaims, and the chuckle that he exhales against her heated skin makes her want to punch him because he knows what he's doing to her—and he _likes_ it. And when Killian Jones likes something… well—

"Goddamit, Jones!" she cries when he sucked her clit into his mouth, hard. Her hands fly to his shoulders, clutching hard as he does it again. _And again_.

"Still unconvinced, darling?" he says, looking up at her with those deeply hued eyes and she just—there are no words because her brain is short circuiting.

"Shut up and move," she croaks gruffly, and really, she should never speak again when she's not sure of her voice because the smirk that he replies her with makes her squirm and writhe under him.

"So commanding all of a sudden," he replies, but his mouth is back and thank God. He pulls his fingers back oh so slowly until only the tips graze her entrance and she whimpers quietly, not expecting the abrupt thrust and the speed—the curling of his digits, hitting that perfect spot—and oh, God!—she feels the heat coiling low in her belly, her walls fluttering around him as his tongue laves at her clit until she's spewing words, the only coherent ones his name and the curses that come after it.

She comes, her walls clamping down hard on his fingers as they continue their ministrations, drawing her climax out longer. She bites down on her lower lip, trying to reel in a scream, instead letting out muffled moans as she turns her head to the side and closes her eyes, the feeling too much and not enough—sudden and abrupt, but the pleasure spreading in her body, under her skin, like wildfire.

A few moments later, she comes down from the high, her chest still heaving, and he climbs back on top of her, a shit-eating grin on his face, but she just feels too good to shoot him anything but a soft glare. He raises his brows high on his forehead and really, he's just asking for it. It's an unspoken question, one she's not going to answer with words.

If the smirk growing on her lips is not telling, then her tangling her legs around his still leather-clad ones, the way she runs her fingers down the chain on his neck, the way her other hand grasps at the hem of his shirt, tugging until he's close enough that she can ghost her breath across his lips—well that's telling.

"I'm not gonna tell you," she whispers, and his breath hitches. She grins wider. "I'm gonna show you, pirate."


	2. home is where the heart is

**AN:** Tumblr prompt from anonymous: _prompt? hook takes emma to where he stays in storybrooke (although he never tells anyone else cuz its supposed to be a secret) and we can only imagine what happens from there ;)_

**Rating:** Probably M ;) (also, let's just say I strayed from canon for a bit there)

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**home is where the heart is.**

It's not long before he laces their fingers together as they walk down the docks that afternoon. When he said they were going on a 'date', rolling the word in his tongue as if it were foreign, she had expected him to take her to a nice restaurant for dinner, and then maybe take a walk around the streets of Storybrooke when the sun had set (in that way, she can still keep doing her job as sheriff while enjoying his company). But no, he had steered her away from Main Street and had led her to the docks. Of course, it would not be Emma if she does not ask where they're going.

But he keeps on dodging the questions, merely giving her a soft smile until finally, she gives up and comments on what he's wearing instead.

"This realm's clothing does suit you," she says to him as she takes in the plain white v-neck and the simple dark wash jeans he is sporting. Her voice holds a tone of jest as she remembers all the times he had complained about jeans and shirts and shoes. She has to give it to him, even when he protests every second about it, he wears the stuff better than most men. Or maybe it's just him.

He turns his head towards her, their gazes locking. "Are you mocking me, Swan?" his voice is laced with malice, and it would have been terrifying if it weren't for the twinkle of his bright blue eyes, reflecting the light of the setting sun in the distance. He raises an eyebrow at her, a smirk on his lips, when she shakes her head at him.

She hears him laugh, a warm and happy sound, and her insides warm as it washes over her.

His hand tightens its grip on hers, gently but firmly, as they stop in front of a shabby wooden storage house beside the last warehouse of the docks. "Here we are," he says to her, giving her his rarest grin—the one that only shows up when he feels proud of himself. (She secretly wishes she could see more of it, and often).

"Killian," she starts as he leaves her there on that spot, and walks towards the rusty door. "What is this?"

"A _date_," he replies, and then exclaiming a soft 'aha' when the door creaks open under his ministrations. "Your lad said to take you somewhere special for this 'date'."

She blinks at him even though his back is to her, even when he disappears through the darkness of the small shelter. "Okay, Killian, where are we?" she puts her hands on her hips, not even budging.

There is a click and then the shelter illuminates with light, and then he is popping his head back to the entrance. "Remember when we came back here so that you can help defeat the Wicked Witch?"

"Yeah, that doesn't explain—

"I wasn't staying at Granny's then, love," he interrupts, tilting his head and giving her another soft grin. "I was staying here."

Her breath stills and her eyes widen, her heart clenching painfully in her chest. She remembers when he told her how he traded the Jolly Roger for a bottle of memory potion, remembers how sad he looked when he was telling them of his journey—

"A kind man named Marco helped me with the arrangements," he says, stretching his hand out for her to hold. She takes it, lets him guide her inside. "Had to adjust without the hold of the sea rocking the premises, but the view is stellar from the window."

The inside was enough to fit two, maybe three people if they tried hard enough. There is a table in the middle of the room, a narrow bed three steps from the door, and a stove in the corner. She swallows the hard lump stuck in her throat, trying to register in her head how he must have felt during those first few days alone in here.

"Come on now, Swan," he snaps lightly, beckoning her to the table where two plates filled with their dinner are arranged. It's simple, really, but it warms her heart even more. "It's not the time to feel sorry about the past."

She gapes, and then decides with rolling her eyes at him and his uncanny ability to read her… like an open book, she thinks.

He guides her to a chair, like the gentleman that he always is, and they eat dinner. He talks about his plans for the rest of the day, tells her that Henry had given him a checklist of things that needed to be done for it to be called a proper date, she asks about the things written there, he tells her there are five of them on that list but reveals only four. She tries, she really does, to make him reveal the last one, but he keeps steering the conversation around until she forgets about it. Until they are sitting beside each other on the bed, facing the fairly large window showing a spectacular view of the line where the sea meets the sky.

Until they are watching as the sun sinks back under the line of the waters, until they are staring at nothing but the twinkling stars that dot the quiet night sky. And then she asks again about the last thing on the list, and it sends him laughing, more to himself than at her.

She grabs his cheek and drags him to her lips, kissing him, and telling herself that it's only to shut him up. The hand that she puts on his chest is to feel his heartbeat, the other hand threading through his hair is to keep him in place as he moves his lips against hers in a dance that they had mastered a long time ago. The leg that goes over his thighs to straddle him is to pin him where he is, and the growing fire in her body is because they had too much wine.

He sighs against her mouth and she inhales him, takes him in. And even when her eyes close, she feels him grinning against the skin of her neck as he kisses her there. He flips them over, and then lays her down on the bed, her ankles immediately locking on his back.

He kisses her languidly, his fingers dragging against her skin as he unbuttons her shirt, tracing maps on her body, as if he could get lost in her. Her answering gasps and sighs spur him on. He presses her on the mattress with his body, his weight gentle and warm on her.

He takes her slowly, a breath shuddering out of him as he sinks into her, painfully taking his time. They are quiet and slow and careful, as if every long and torturous thrust would break them both, as if every moan would push them over the edge.

But heat, there is heat, and her heart beats in time with his breaths, her exhales sounding more and more like his name, the quiet air singing with their voices. There is no space between their bodies, not knowing anymore where he ends and where she begins. He palms her breasts, she kisses him deeply, pressing her body into his when she arches her back.

And then time suddenly stills as they are pushed over the edge, shattering, gasping, groaning. Her hands travel down his back as her chest heaves with her climax, breathing his name against the skin under his ear. He is shuddering against her with his muffled groans, and then he goes limp.

"Emma," he whispers against her skin, reverence and longing and love in his tone, things that she could feel enough with his touches, but could feel more with his words. "I love you."

She bites her lower lip, fighting back a grin as her chest clenches sweetly. "I love you, too."

* * *

She is perched on his chest, still naked from the night before, but this time, the early morning light is streaming through the window. She grins at him, he smiles back at her, eyes soft and calm. "So," she says, tracing patterns on the skin above his heart. "Are you going to tell me about that last thing?"

His chuckle rumbles through her as he drags her up to meet his lips, kissing her languidly, sucking on her bottom lip, and then releasing it with a wet noise. He smiles that devastatingly handsome smile and it warms her insides. "No sex on the first date."


End file.
